Scars & Silence
by mipib2
Summary: A new case relates back to an old case, and even older memories. Why does Dean always have to follow their dad and his 'need-to-know' hunting style? Can Sam piece together all the clues before any more people turn up dead and get Dean to open up?
1. Chapter 1

_Then - April 1995, Bald Knob, Arkansas._

School was finished for the day and Sam was standing on the corner waiting for Dean. Sam had been waiting for almost an hour, and only the order of _don't draw attention to yourself_ made him stop biting his nails and fidget for a few moments before he unconsciously started doing it again. Dean was almost never late, and when he was, it was never a good sign. It usually heralded their dad's return from a hunt gone bad and being too hurt to be left alone. So Sam worried and debated with his inner voice the hundredth time whether to start walking homewards. He saw Miss Carden exit through the school's main entrance and despite his worry he surreptitiously watched her bosom sway in tact to her step under her dark purple, shiny shirt. It made his stomach clench, but in a funny, good sort of way and a blush crept up until both his ears were bright red. Suddenly, his want for Dean turned to an urgent wish that Dean would not turn up. As Miss Carden drove away in her old Ford Focus, the weird feelings left Sam and the want for Dean returned, mixed with guilt of having, however briefly, wished for the opposite.

When the one hour late mark had come and gone, Sam started walking, constantly keeping a vigilant eye on the traffic of any signs of the impala. The walk was not that long, and he felt twinges of irritation of Dean's insistence on picking him up as if he was still in 3rd grade. If Dean would just let him walk home on his own – he was almost 12 years old, for Christ's sake! – he would have been home by now. He started swearing, one word for each step he took. With each step his irritation grew, and after several minutes he ran out of swearwords and started inventing new ones in time with each step; oglemonkey, frecklefart, clowncow…after another couple of blocks the mental challenge of creating new words at speed shifted his focus and his bad mood started to lift. His apprehension changed into eagerness of seeing their dad again. Dad had been gone a long time, almost a full month this time, and although Sam was angry at his absence, the safety his father's presence always induced made the possibility of reunion slowly seduce him into an expectant, lighter mood, his annoyance at Dean reduced if not completely forgotten.

Sam saw the impala parked outside their motel room, as he walked past he felt the hood, it was warm but not hot. Dean must have been driving within the past half hour or so. So Dean had been late, and driven directly to the motel rather than swing by Sam's school only a five minute journey away. Sam could only think of one thing that would make Dean drive straight home – the return of their dad in injured shape. Sam walked with long, apprehensive steps and jolted open their motel room in the hope of finding Dean and their Dad both inside. The room was dark, the curtains still pulled and it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to being inside from the sharp sunshine outside, still falling through the open door. There were no hushed voices, groans or sharp-ended conversations stilled with his arrival, any of the usual signs that Dad and Dean were there were absent. No-one was in the motel room Dean and Sam shared during their dad's absence. The small kitchenette at the end, with yesterday's dirty cups and plates piled into the sink, was equally empty. But for a small sound from the bathroom Sam might have thought the place deserted. He went to open the bathroom door, but unexpectedly, the door was locked.

The rattle of the door must have alerted the inhabitant to his presence as he heard Dean question from the other side 'Sammy, that you?'

'Dean, what's wrong?' he answered immediately.

He thought he heard a sigh, but before he had a chance to think or ask any more, Dean answered 'nothing's wrong, I'll be out in a minute' in a voice that sounded tired and sad.

'Why is the door locked?', a knot of worry was forming at the base of his stomach, all instincts telling him that something, indeed, was very wrong.

But Dean opened the door and walked into the main motel room, no visible signs of hurt or halted movements indicating damage, not even looking Sam in the eye but nonchalantly flopping down on his stomach on his bed and grabbing the TV remote, flipping it on before saying 'I'm sorry for not picking you up from school, Sammy. I, um, got delayed picking up a few groceries and didn't realise it had got so late.'

His tone portraying sincerity but his averted face making it difficult for Sam to read the truth or lie in his eyes. Realising the entry left wide open in their 'why I don't need a pick-up from school argument' soon made his feelings of worry dissipate as he restarted their old argument but with renewed ammunition.

But instead of arguing back, Dean suddenly turned his back to Sam and said 'Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to wait so long.' Dean ran a hand across his face before continuing 'I'm really tired, would you mind heating up the SpaghettiOs yourself tonight?'

Dean not making dinner was as rare as him not picking Sam up from school. The feelings of worry woke again from their subdued slumber.

'Are you OK, Dean? You're not getting sick or something?' Sam's voice went up at the end of the sentence turning his voice into a squeak, the same way it did when he had spoken to Millie Harrow in English that morning. This time, though, he didn't pay it much attention or get embarrassed and look away. Instead his eyes fastened on Dean's back willing it, hoping to order it, to tell him what was wrong. Thoughts of times when Dean had been ill unwittingly sprang to his mind, the memories of prolonged fear and uncertainty gently nudging his consciousness. He suppressed the unwanted feelings and with effort brought his thoughts completely into the present.

'No, I'm not sick, just tired. Just let me sleep and I'll feel better in a while'.

So, Dean wasn't feeling well. But not getting sick. Yeah right! On the other hand, Dean admitting to not feeling well was so totally opposite their usual script of conversation that it left Sam floundering for several seconds not knowing how to react. In the end, he acquiesced and quietly slumped down on the bed, leaning over and grabbing the remote from beside Dean.

They watched an episode of Star Trek, laying side by side on one of the beds. Sam noticed how Dean slowly seemed to sink into the mattress, his weight settling as if he had held himself tensely before. The close contact soothed Sam's earlier fears of sickness, the lack of signs of fever and the touch of Dean enough to reassure him for now. Soon, the long, even breaths told him his brother was sleeping. Later, he made the SpaghettiOs – thank God, Dean had gone shopping. They had been nearly out of everything that morning, including toilet roll (and God knew the last time that had happened they had had to…) Sam stopped his thoughts going there as it might just loose him his appetite. He debated whether to heat up the entire can and wake Dean, but in the end only made enough for himself. Both, because it was probably better if Dean slept whatever was ailing him off, and also because he had, after all, made Sammy wait for an hour and now made him have to be all quiet and walk on tiptoes. Mostly, the former though, his conscience supplied with a tinge of guilt.

Dean didn't wake up and in the end Sam went to sleep, checking the salt lines and locking the door in the same fashion he had seen Dean do it for as long as he could remember. He felt a secret, inner pride that Dean had trusted him with the task, mixed with worry at the still sleeping form of his brother. To think the absence of the constant chatter Dean usually kept up, that could be so infuriating, could leave Sam missing it, was too perplexing and rather than ponder over Dean's behaviour and drudging up unwanted memories of illness and calling, calling, calling their dad, Sam went to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you Wyotrink and Missingmonkey for reviewing the first chapter (my first reviews, woohoo!). Anyhow, onwards with the story…

The next day, Dean seemed to feel better, teasing and goading Sam if not quite with the same gusto as usual. And although he claimed to have eaten breakfast whilst Sam was in the shower, Sam noticed that there was no new dirty dish in the sink. But he didn't get to ask, as Dean flung Sam's dirty socks from the day before at his head with a 'get dressed sunshine, or you'll be late for your biology class'. It took a moment before he realised he had to wear the same dirty socks from the day before.

'Argh, Dean, that's two days in a row in dirty socks. You promised to do the laundry!' He pulled the socks on with swift, jerky movements. Yep, just as he suspected, he could definitely smell his socks faintly, even when standing up. They would probably also stay eternally grey now, never achieving the white freshness they originally had held. He complained until Dean practically pushed him out of the motel and into the car.

Dean drove Sam to school, but in spite of the previous day's experience, still asserted that he would pick Sam up 'as usual'. If Sam hadn't missed the energetic chatter so much the night before, he would have thrown a fit just on principle. As it was, he slammed the car door – with his foot.

'Sammy', came the low, guttural warning from Dean.

Sam glanced back and waved innocently, and with a smile headed for the school entrance, hoping to catch a glance of Miss Carden before first class, wondering if she would wear an even tighter top than yesterday? The thought alone made his ears starting to redden. By the end of the day, the sock smell was definitely not faintly anymore, and he just wanted to escape as quickly and quietly as possible.

Luckily, Dean was waiting when he exited the school. Unfortunately, the chance of a quick, quiet exit dissipated fast as Sam noticed Dean's hands beating the steering wheel with imaginary drum sticks as Smoke on the Water blared through the open windows, attracting attention of all the wrong sorts. How did that match the whole 'keep your head down' speech dad always preached? Of course Dean refused to turn the music down all the way back to the motel.

For dinner, Dean made omelettes, adding God knows what this time. They came out green. Didn't taste too bad though, definitely a solid five on Sams scale. The scale ranged from one, which equalled the onion soup of last year (he had only been able to eat one spoonful and just the thought of the stuff still made his stomach turn) to Dean's lasagne rating a top 10, because it was simply the best.

In the evening, their dad (finally!) called. He was chasing a warlock across state lines into Oklahoma, hot on his trail he said, in what Sam disgustedly identified as an excited tone of voice.

'When will you be back?' Dean had asked immediately, but with more intensity than usual. Dean fingers were practically squeezing the life out of the phone receiver, holding it in such a tight grip.

'Sorry, Dean, you will have to look after things for a few more days. I should be back by the weekend', his father promised. 'Call Caleb if you need anything'.

Apparently, Pastor Jim – their usual first port of call – was on a hunt in Missouri, and Bobby Singer was incommunicado hunting a suspected crocotta in Plumas, a forest area in the Sierra Nevada mountain range. That left Caleb, whom Sam found most the most annoying of all of dads close contacts. Not that he didn't like him, but Caleb and Dean got along too well, often pranking Sam and Sam always ended up feeling like the third wheel to their duo. But, as Sam thought of Dean's behaviour over the past couple of days, he thought it might be good for them to visit Caleb for a couple of days. That would definitely cheer Dean up, probably get him out of his current funk. Sam already started scheming on how to get dad to suggest they go there, knowing Dean would never ask. Maybe Sam was getting a cold? No, it would need to be something worse.

'I tried calling him, but he's not answering,' Dean countered. Sam looked up sharply at Dean. When had Dean called Caleb?

'Everything OK, Dean?' their father suddenly changed tone from excitement to worry, or was it anger? Sam wasn't sure as it was difficult to pick up what their dad was saying, as close as Dean was holding the phone. When and why had Dean called Caleb, he hadn't told Sam any of this?

'We're fine, we can make do till the weekend,' Dean responded looking with interest at a dirty spot on the carpet, nudging it with his shoe. They always wore shoes indoors, ever since Hillsboro and the 'flea incident', even if it did dirty up the place quicker. Besides, the floor in the kitchenette was oddly sticky, despite the fact that they had mobbed it twice in their first week of stay.

'You know Caleb - He's probably just messing about with some girl' Dean muttered (yeah, half his age, Sammy's mind supplied obligingly).

'Just ring him again if you need to, and try calling him at different times of the day,' his father lectured in a voice sounding oddly disappointed. Was he angry at Caleb? Surely not Dean? – Sam started feeling his temper rise, a sudden anger directed towards their dad. Why couldn't he hear that something was wrong – when did Dean ever call another hunter without the situation being serious?

'Dad should be here' Sam said in a voice loud enough to be heard at the other end despite not holding the phone, but not as loud as being clearly part of the conversation. But rather than getting dad's attention, Dean quickly wrapped up their phone call instead and ended it with a 'be careful, dad' before putting the phone back on its receiver. Sam wasn't sure dad had not hung up before the last sentence, as the hang-up tone was clearly audible as Dean reached to put the phone back on the receiver.

'When did you call Caleb?' he immediately asked Dean. Dean turned around and walked over to the sink not even glancing at Sam and turned on the tab, preparing to finally do the dishes. The tab always took forever to heat up, so Dean let the water run freely, occasionally sticking a finger into the water to test its temperature.

'Doesn't matter' Dean answered offhand, as if it was unimportant.

Sam, though, determined not to let the matter drop just because Dean wanted it to asked 'Why?'.

Dean looked up then, briefly, and the sadness in Dean's eyes was so foreign that Sam could have sworn the person looking at him in that split second, was someone else, someone not Dean. And yet, he suspected that this glimpse, this was the real Dean peeking out. The one behind all the masks, all the smoke and illusions. Behind the smile that allayed nosy neighbours and intrusive old ladies, who all wanted to know if 'everything was alright?' The gleaming, beguiling smile that always convinced others that everything was A-OK. The 'we're fine, Sammy', or 'I'm fine' served with a smaller version of that same smile, always convincing and skilfully delivered.

He hated Dean and his walls, why couldn't he just be honest with him, trust him enough to tell him the truth? Why was it that Dean could decide everything, with a 'because I said so' or 'because I'm the oldest'? Sam hadn't chosen to be the younger brother, and he truly wanted to help him, help both him and dad. If only they would let him. Sam knew that Dean missed their dad when he was away on hunts, more so than Sam. Dean always worried about dad, worried about Sam. That's why he needed to let Sam help, help out with things.

'Doesn't matter' Dean repeated in voice that sounded suddenly tired, though a breath later he said with renewed energy. 'Hey, how about we go to the cinema? Though, I'm not going to watch any of that emo-crap you call 'drama,' he sing-songed the last part in a snivelling, whiny voice. The voice oddly at contrast to his eyes, that still looked haunted and pained. And yet, Sam got it. Dean was asking him to drop the questions, in the only way he knew how, and how was Sam to deny him such a small favour?

'Hey, I picked Braveheart last time, remember? Not like Batman Forever which you dragged me to, which friggin' sucked!' Sam gleefully put emphasis on the last word, knowing how it goaded Dean to have his comic-book hero insulted only to find a handful of foam thrown with surprising speed across the small room. He managed to bat it away at the last moment. Of course Sam retaliated with a pillow and after a brief melee they ended up wrestling on the floor. It was just so unfair that Dean weighted a ton and could hold him down so easily. Except, rather than make Sam beg and plead to all manners of cruel and depraved things, Dean let him go almost immediately and went to the bathroom all too suddenly.

'Hey, you OK?' Sam asked quietly by the door.

It took almost a full minute before Dean answered a single, short 'yeah. Out in a minute.'

When he came back out several minutes later, he acted as if nothing had happened, quickly poking Sam in the side as he grabbed the car keys and his jacket. 'Come on, lazy days' Dean quipped and went outside to the impala.

They bickered all the way to the cinema, where they agreed on watching 12 monkeys. 'Sammy, any film with monkeys in the title we gotta watch – it's a Winchester Law,' Dean had said inflecting conviction into his voice and pulling such a sincere and serious face that Sam almost believed him. Except, as usual, Dean's eyes sparkled with mirth, giving the game away instantly. Sam, relieved to see Dean acting normal again, agreed to watch the film. On the way home they continued bickering, Sam pointing out the plot inconsistencies, whilst Dean seemed to find the whole time-loop thing _cool_ and countering with arguments such as 'come on, it's Bruce Willis. He's awesome'.

Sometimes, you just couldn't debate decently with Dean – how could you like a whole film just because someone in it was cool, regardless of the plot? They went to sleep, and just as Sam was happily dosing off, did the thought fleetingly cross his mind that Dean had never answered his original question of why he had rung Caleb. Tomorrow, he thought, I will make him tell me, and with this conviction firmly fixed in his mind sleep invitingly pulled him under.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to Cecile, gr8read, CapitalC12 and je2060 for reviewing the last chapter, much appreciated amigos! Onwards with the story…

Chapter 3.

The weekend came and went, still no sign of dad. Although, Sam wasn't surprised, Dean seemed to take it harder than usual, constantly eyeing the door when a car parked out front, a glimpse of earnest hope escaping followed by a slump of defeat as no one came to their door. For some reason Dean's behaviour set Sam's teeth on edge. What right did he have to be so hopeful for dad's return, wasn't Sam's company enough for Dean? And yet, every time Dean lifted his head in anticipation, Sam did the same. And with each defeated slump, Sam's anger increased incrementally. It took a toll on them in other ways, their bickering turned into arguments, and arguments turned into pushing, shouting and slamming doors. Dad's return became a week overdue and Dean went more and more quiet – didn't say anything on the whole drive to Sam's school. Just looked preoccupied, his eyes surreptitiously passing Sam's face but never really making eye contact as he said 'be good, Sammy' and drove off. For some reason, the old sense of worry started gnawing in Sam's stomach as he watched the impala roar out of the parking lot. Only when it was completely out of his sights did Sam turn around and trudge up the steps to the school main entrance. Even through his history class and Mr. Lewis animated lesson on the WW2 Operation Mincemeat, Sam couldn't supress his worry, a slow pressure settling in his stomach and a tightness developing across his shoulders. A quiet Dean was never good, Sam knew.

Later, when Dean picked him up, Dean remained subdued, didn't chatter or instigate discussions on 'the finer things in life' which for Dean meant a monologue on his conquests of girls, nor did he lecture on 'home rules' which as far as Sam could tell consisted of making up rules for the sole purpose of winding him up. For example, 'I will pick you up from school because I consider you a five-year old', the latter bit although not stated out loud, heavily implied. Instead, Dean briefly smiled, though the smile never reached his eyes. Sam knew Dean was worrying over their funds, or rather lack of. The motel clerk had been eyeing them since last week and had twice confronted Dean asking for their overdue rent. If dad didn't return soon, they might lose their room and then what would they do? Probably, they'd have to go stay at Caleb's or something. Had Dean called him again, Sam wondered? Before Sam could ask, Dean had pulled into their motel car park and told Sammy to go inside.

'Why? Where are you going?' Sam asked, rather than agreeing.

'God, can't you just…' Whatever Dean was about to say he broke off and closed his eyes briefly before explaining 'I just need to fill up on gas and buy a few groceries, we're almost out.'

Again! Sam thought. 'Can I come?' Sam asked earnestly. Dean smiled, but looked sad all the same.

'I thought you would have jumped on the chance for a bit of time on your own. You know, a chance to be all geeky and do your homework _ahead_ of time,' Dean all but drawled the last words.

The thought of a bit of time on his own, so rare (as Dean was worse than a mother hen when it came to Sam), being able to work in silence, without the chatter from the TV incessantly running in the background, was enticing and Sam agreed almost immediately. The motel clerk gave a friendly nod as Sam walked past the reception office – he was puzzled? Had Dean paid their rent? How? If he had had the money all along, why hadn't he just paid him sooner, instead of pretending to worry about it? The old anger of being kept out of the loop, as if Dean and dad were members of a secret club to which Sammy was forbidden, suddenly bloomed in his chest. Why couldn't they just trust him, tell him what was going on? As he entered their motel room, he closed the door and remained still, waiting for his anger to subside. It took a few moments until he could unclench his hands and focus his attention away from the longstanding feelings of exclusion and disregard. He drank several mouthfuls of water straight from the tap, a bit of the water escaping and running down his chin and onto his shirt. He found the coolness of the water soothing and numbing, and slowly the old anger retreated. Mindful not to waste his rare moment of privacy, he pulled out 'The outsiders', a book they were reading for English and after a surprisingly short while, Sam was engrossed in the book. By the time Dean returned, Sam had forgotten about his anger, instead thinking of gangs, fights and whether Dean and him could be considered 'golden'.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to gr8read, reannablue,CapitalC12 and anonymous for reviewing the last chapter. This chapter will be the last chapter that takes place pre-series in a while…hope you all enjoy!

*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*SPN*

Chapter 4

Dad returned two days before Sam's birthday. It turned out the warlock dad had hunted had cast a spell on him and he hadn't been able to remember who he was for the better part of a week. After much needling and wheedling, Dean managed to get the old man to admit that he had been turned into a black cat. Sam and Dean had both roared with laughter when dad sheepishly admitted to his feline adventures, tears streaming down both their cheeks. Seeing them laugh freely, dad had continued his tale of trying to catch a mouse behind a dumpster outside a restaurant, the excitement he had felt, the manoeuvres he had undertook.

'See, I balanced on the edge of the dumpster, my tail steadying my position. God, it reeked. Cats' sense of smell is much, much sharper than humans. If I never have to sniff a bin again it will be too soon. You just don't appreciate how many times you have to lick your fur to get the smell out. And don't get me started on the fur balls that follow.'

Sam had laughed so hard it had made him hiccup. And, although, he was still angry at their father for leaving them alone for so long, the happiness and joy of seeing him alive and unhurt supplanted his anger, at least momentarily. Dean had also laughed, but it had almost sounded like he had been crying towards the end, combined with tears running down his cheeks. Sam's hiccups stopped as suddenly as they had started, and he looked at Dean sharply. Dad continued explaining exactly why cats found it so joyful to play with their prey. Almost as if Dean sensed the sudden scrutiny, he stopped, excused himself and seemingly fled to the bathroom. Sam turned his attention to his father's story again, but in a more subdued mood. His father paused and with furrowed brows watched Dean's retreat.

'Everything OK whilst I was gone?' His dad asked him, still watching in the direction of the bathroom door, now closed.

'Yeah', Sam had answered. 'Dean really missed you, dad. I mean, I missed you too, but Dean...' He left the rest of the sentence unsaid, not knowing how to convey the quiet desperation Dean had exuded the last several days. As both of them watched the now closed door to the bathroom, Sam peripherally caught an expression of guilt cross his father's face. Rather than sympathize with him, his first thought was 'good – you should be'. He was surprised by how strong his reaction was; so stark dark and angry. That, more than anything else, stopped him from starting the oldest argument between him and dad. A few minutes later Dean returned, once again smiling and goading dad into finishing his tabby tale. This time, though, Sam was careful not to unsettle Dean's positive mood, seemingly more fragile than usual. Sam made sure not to level any complaints or otherwise initiate arguments with their dad. The evening progressed with shared camaraderie, sustained by their dad's unusually talkative spirit. Even telling a story from Before, as Sam always thought of it. Before their mum had died. Both Sam and Dean barely breathed, remaining as quiet as possible to not interrupt their dad's telling. By the end of the evening Sam went to bed, more happy and content than he remembered being in a long time.

Of course, it didn't last.

The next morning they packed up their things and left before daybreak, leaving their motel room bill unpaid Sam assumed, but too tired to ask or argue. He went straight to sleep in the back seat as the impala rumpled onto the main road, the car's gentle swerve and scents of home lulling him to sleep quicker than any other remedy could. Weird sightings reported in the woods about two days drive due North, his dad had explained, might be something called a 'Wendigo'. Sam didn't much care – he mourned the loss of another set of friends made with care and time, and Miss Carden's appreciation of tight-fitting, low riding tops (or was it the other way round, he mused). Once again, it was onwards, to yet another place of being the new kid, the outsider. The stranger with no friends, a missing dad and a brother always worrying.


End file.
